Nobody is offering to cook for me. Nobody is offering their sympathy
“The good news,” I tell my husband as I take treatment meds for the first time, “is that this is all going to be behind us in, like, five minutes.”
I’m an optimist. If we’re doing treatments, it’s obviously going to work. We’ll have a baby in just a little over two years after we got married. That’s not even really called waiting, right?
Three hours after popping the pills, I begin to feel extremely nauseated. I stand in the bathroom, waiting to vomit.
I’m supposed to up the dose tomorrow and double it two days later.
I can’t do this.
Betzalel knocks on the bathroom door. “You okay in there?”
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